


Thrash Metal

by Vaysh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, John Watson in Afghanistan, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Series, War, soldier John, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5978800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Sherlock there was Afghanistan. Or: <i>The war teaches John new things about himself. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrash Metal

**Author's Note:**

> Written within 24 hours (or more like 3) for the come_at_once Challenge on LiveJournal. My prompt was "a song only you can hear", from garonne.

Middle of July; middle of the night. Helmand valley is buzzing with heat and mosquitos. The song of war is this – the sounds of soldiers moving in their sleep, the boys four tents further down playing cards until long after midnight. Small animals scurrying along the toppled walls. Barely audible snatches of _thrash metal_ (that's what he calls it when John asks) from Kovach across who sleeps with his earplugs in. It's a mix of noises that feels like hot adrenalin bleeding out of John's body, after removing a bullet, after amputating a hand. Quiet after the storm, John waxes poetic in his mind. He chuckles to himself.

Sangin FOB is not a safe place. The "deadliest area in Afghanistan", the _Guardian_ calls the province. But tonight, it's a place safe enough for a leisurely wank. John has had enough of listening to the only other sound as predictable, as ever-present, as annoying as the bloody mosquitos: guys beating their meat with barely a tent flap between them and everybody else.

John is half-hard already, calm and desire settling into his body. It's blatantly asking for what it knows feels good. And Dr John H. Watson was raised a gentleman but he was trained a soldier. Polite British manners become superfluous in any war, even with women in the camp. They've seen each other piss and shit _(vomit, rage, cry)_. Shame, because of a natural bodily function, is ridiculous at this point. Three weeks into his deployment in Afghanistan, John is a pro at wanking practically in public.

He presses his palm over his erection; he fiddles with the buttons and zippers of his trousers with the other hand. Kovach, the thrash metal kid, smirks at him from the opposite tent, his gaze deliberately on John's crotch. John rolls his eyes. Kid's gay, they are almost friends and talked. And it's not as if John had not seen Kovach pull one off on more than a dozen occasions. That kid is shameless even in this world without shame. John flips him off and loosens the flap of the tent so it falls close. He can hear the kid's laughter and thinks, heartfelt, _fuck him._ He'd never, though. Fuck him, that is. He thought of men, hell, he kissed a man once, a boy really, his best friend at school. Never had sex with a man though; he's too much into women for that. Or so he thought. The war teaches him new things about himself. And he'd never find a kid as young as Kovach tempting. But he can see now how a certain camaraderie, under certain circumstances, could easily land him in another man's arms. A certain appreciation for hard muscle, too, for a bit of power play he never allows himself with women.

The mat is comfortable, the inside of his bedroll soft and it does not smell of antiseptic and blood. John stretches out, loses his trousers, and on second thought, he pulls off his socks. He feels naked in the white tee and briefs but good naked, like he hasn't in a long time. His right hand finds his cock and he starts stroking. 

With the closed flap the temperature in his tent is at least five degrees higher than outside. The wind must be picking up because he can hear the flap-flap-flap of the Union Jack in front of headquarters. The rhythm goes nicely with what his hand is doing to his cock. It's easy, so familiar, the way the pressure builds – in his groin, in his thighs. He thinks of nothing much, never needs to, to rev up his arousal. There's fleeting images of breasts, snippets of memories of sex he'd enjoyed, enjoyed very much – Carol's long curved back, coming in the crack of her arse; dark hair smelling of sweat and sage. The kiss comes to his mind as he strokes faster, harder, the kiss from years ago. The feeling of Alan's lanky body against him, the sharp spike of lust when Alan's tongue moved into his mouth without a moment of hesitation. God, he'd almost come, just from kissing another boy. 

Heat floods him, languorous and light. Something sharpens with desire, and he feels precome seeping from his cock. This happens rarely, he isn't usually a leaker. Must have been too long since the last time he let himself just go like this, like...

It's so good. He touches himself, hot left hand sliding up his belly. John thinks, lips and nipples, spit and a tiny bit of teeth, and he moans obscenely loud, cannot hold it in. Bright red lipstick, the waxy taste on his tongue. He on top, devouring that willing mouth. Thin lips, sharp chin, the mere ghost of stubble. These lips come with the taste of bitter tea. Cigarettes. Alan's strong bony hands pushing him against the wall. Holding him there. God, so good. His right hand is flying up and down his cock. He wants to feel a lover's name on his lips, he says _(groans)_ , "Alan", even when he knows Alan is married with two kids and home in England. He's adding words like, "fuck", "can't", "harder, oh God, harder". John's never been quiet during sex, and now, in this moment, he gives a flying fuck about Kovach and the boys four tents down. 

He's so close. The heat in the tent swirls around him, or at least it feels as if _something_ swirls around him. His thighs tremble, he rubs his finger-tips against the pebble of his tit, pinches it, hard. Crack of arse, he imagines, but it's not Carol's arse, and it isn't Alan's because John has never seen Alan's arse naked. But he's so close it doesn't matter. And it's not the thought of Alan's arse that tips him over the edge. It's a sudden surge of music from the kid's player, a few wild beats splitting the night. Then a curse, then quiet. John's head falls back, his fingers scramble for... something, and he comes, half-strangled scream escapes him, loud like the thrash metal. Raw. Ripped from him. Like a hand ripped from a soldier's body. 

There's cursing and dirty laughter from the card-playing boys, and John's name. He'll never hear the end of it, come morning. He doesn't care, gulps in a few deep breaths of air instead. His belly is spunk-spattered, but he feels content. Light. Relaxed like he hadn't been in quite some time. His half-soft cock feels good in his hand. He thinks he may ask the kid for some of his music. Yes. He'll do that. In the morning. Now, he sleeps.  



End file.
